Ingredients for Growing a Soul
by bad and bloody
Summary: Spike gains a soul, and bit more then he bargained for. Set in Africa after Spike finishs the trials. R/R.
1. Ingredient one: Brooding

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah..Don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer nor it's characters..and all that gob. Summery: Well, this is obviously the next step after Season 7, thus having a full..or seemingly full view on exactly what Spike went through after that neat cliffhanger we where left with. Review. Don't, and the coalbin'll be put to good use. As for adding more chapters, all will be solved in your reviews. And: Read on. D  
  
  
  
  
  
Ingredient one: Brooding  
  
  
  
There was a mixture of things that woke him up. The hunger, for one thing. The repetitious buzzing sound from an unknown object, and the light that seemed to pierce the darkness behind closed lids.  
  
And pain. There was an intense pains arising in his chest, spreading down from his fingers to toes. It was almost paralyzing, and barely tolerable. His head felt like a mosh pit of jumbled thoughts and recent memories.  
  
Then came the flash backs.  
  
Dark. Hurtful darkness. The kind of blinding oblivion that mocks your senses. It rivals the sanity that you've kept safe for so long. Vampire or not, it hurt like hell. Trials. Three of them. A swirl of pictures, each including the silhouetted profile of that demon, the one that supposedly granted wishes. For a bloody hell of a price.  
  
Soul?  
  
No, no, no. No soul. Not like him. And the scream. Was it his scream? Probably. The vibrating vocal cords were sore. The feeling of bugs then. Tens of millions. More, perhaps. Crawling, the lot of them. Sporting a pair of six legs each. A shudder ran through his still body. Fire, then. Sure, the darkness was gone, but then there was fire. Fire that scorched his skin. Wasn't the fire before the bugs? Who cares. It was over.  
  
Over. Was he dead? Or, un-un dead? Try moving. No, no such luck. But, what about that soul business then? One way ticket into Heaven, innit? Oh sure, go through some three sodding trials and get an eternity stuck in a non-animated corpse. Welsher cheated him.  
  
Move, dammit.  
  
There. Leg's moving. Fingers, achy but moveable. Alright, so maybe he wasn't laying at some pearly white gates. But then again, he isn't laying in some morgue in LA.  
  
Morgue. LA. Africa. Shit.  
  
A seemingly silent scream pressed through thin lips. The cry of pain was obviously enough to be brought to the attention of the women, a dark African woman, who gasped.  
  
Gasp. Yeah, so ears are working too. Vampire senses seem dead, though. Yeah, much like himself. Ha ha. Regroup, you ponce. Pull yourself up. There you go. Ignore the pain. You've been through hell, what are a few more minutes.  
  
The woman had screamed when the supposed dead body sprung up. Well, not sprung up, per say, but a slow and seemingly painful struggle to sit up. He looked around.  
  
The lights. Sun?  
  
He turned himself around, noticing the windows had been drawn tightly. The only lights being emitted was from the dirty florescent tubes that hung overhead. The fact that they had electricity was the least of his troubles.  
  
The buzzing sounds had stopped, but the conclusion was set once his view had turned over to the bloke next to him. Burn marks on his chest, similar to the ones on his. Rubber gloves on the trolley next to the cot. An electrical impulse machine close by.  
  
Bloody hell. Did that bloke, obviously not a vampire, try the same? Well, 'course he didn't come skipping for a soul. Neither did he, for that matter. Shuddering again. And footsteps. Did that screaming chit leave? God, anyone got a stake?  
  
"'e's awake, sir."  
  
Spike was confused. Pained and confused. And feeling terribly screwed. Souls don't mean squat, that's mainly why he ventured so far east to lose the chip, not gain a soul. Yeah, Spike with a shiny new soul. Right up there with grandsire poof. Oh hell. Blood shot eyes sprinted forward at the person that had entered the room. He shifted, despite gritted teeth. It was a man, white, with a strong tan. Mid 50's. Mid life crises victim, perhaps? You know those types, who travel to the furthest ends of the earth so they can brag to their chums that they did something in their sodding life?  
  
"Ah, thought you'd never come too."  
  
All right, so he's friendly. And British. Friendly can be over exuberant. Friendly can be annoying. Without stopping himself, he let out a tense growl, rupturing the already sore cords.  
  
"Ow, dammit."  
  
Barely audible. And barely tolerable, the pain was. Propped up elbows kept his burnt back hovering a few inches away from the red sheets. Had be bled that much? And exactly what was the allotted time?  
  
"Would keep still, vampire. Burns like that take time even for your species."  
  
Vampire? Was it that obvious? Well, those burn marks probably would've killed a human. But he could've been a strong human. Oh god, stop mumbling. You're alive. Well, so to speak. SHUT UP.  
  
His mental argument and chastisement seemed quite picturesque. His face was beaten though, readable expressions seemed lost. A track of black and blue marks trailed from his forehead to his stomach. His back was bloody, thus the sheets having blotches of tainted blood patterns.  
  
"Surprised that you made it. First vampire to survive in nearly 500 years."  
  
Oh, worthy. Yeah, always with the worthy trollop. Angel wasn't worthy. Nope, he was skipping around with that bitch of a curse. But was there strings attached with this soul deal?  
  
He kept quiet. No words to speak. He slowly let himself down again into the puddle of dry blood. Cobalt eyes searched the ceiling. Nope, this wasn't a hut. A rather sturdy establishment made out of wood and stucco. Technology seemed impressive out here, especially since he was in a part of the country not even listed on the map.  
  
"You don't seem too happy about that new soul of yours."  
  
Score one for the annoying one. Doesn't this needle every shut up. Close your eyes, pretend that you're not interested.  
  
"Chip on your shoulder? Or rather in your head?"  
  
Now that made his brow furrow. Well, the bloke probably did examine him when he was laying unconscious on the bed. Yeah, advantage there. No, keep quiet. He'll go away.  
  
"Hmm, not one too talk, are we, Spike?"  
  
All right, that's it. Up we go. Fuck the pain. That's right. Bloody knackered doctor thinks he can pull a fast one. Fat lot that's going to do. No knickers in a bundle, right?  
  
"Wow, you are good, aren't you, mate?"  
  
Ah, that's right. Sarcasm, old boy. But that barely covered what he wanted to know. Soul. 500 years? Worthy business. And the fact that this screwed doctor knew who he was. Positive the bruises left something to be desired.  
  
"Well, after being a watcher for a few years, you get a knack for those sort of things."  
  
Watcher? Council, innit? Oh, bloody hell. Knew he sounded all too British. Accents where all one in the same anyway. Well, that had basically answered the lot of his questions. Not strange for a watcher to know every bleeding vampire that was mentioned in a book some thousand years ago. And saying thousand was being generous.  
  
"Don't worry, I'm not in the business anymore."  
  
Ooh, good. No stakes then. Or garlic. Hell, a bit of sun and it's all over. Everything but the victory party. Ol' Spike is dead. The Slayer and the gang. Wager a few calico's that they're all for staking him. After his twisted attempt to get to Buffy, or using the more harsh word, rape her, he left Sunnyhell. Left his bloody duster there too. Whelp probably burned it.  
  
The man chuckled, then made his way before the injured vampire. Hovering about him for a moment, taking the time to examine him as thoroughly as a minute gave him. He seemed all the bit tentative about the vampire. Despite the pain, Spike had that crooked grin on. Big Bad's back in action.  
  
Please. Scared. The tarty chap obviously knew he didn't have his bite anymore. And this soul, sure, it meant zilch, but it still meant something. Sentimental value. Maybe then Buffy and her patented God Squad would think more of him. If he did ever return back to the Hellmouth.  
  
"Must be wondering about..well, everything aren't you? I've read a lot about you, William. Rail road spikes, eh? Ingenious, if I do say so myself. You seemed to have quite a..disdainful taste in torture."  
  
Seemed. Well, hell. He could still pull off a few moves. On demons. Blasted chip. Can't even defend himself against robbers. Well, there's always the useless demon visage.  
  
"From the style of writing in the old text, it seemed that you where like a vampire Shaft. Everyone wanted to be you. Torture the way you do."  
  
The ex-Watcher chuckled. He had in time moved himself to the other side of the room, cleaning a few instruments. He removed the latex gloves from his hands, disposing of them.  
  
"A real vampiric Sid and Nancy, you and Drusilla where."  
  
Oh, sure. Bring up Dru. Just needed to hear that, mate. Growl, dammit. Let this wanker know whose boss.  
  
"You're not gonna shut up anytime soon, are you?"  
  
There we go. Spoken like a true poof. Next ask if he can change your sheets. Blood really isn't your thing anymore.  
  
The man was hardly taken back by his scratchy comments, disappearing into the next room and returning a few minutes later with a mug. It was full with the crimson liquid that kept the undead from appearing..well, undead. He stopped next to the cot with the resting vampire, handing the mug to him gently and without a look of disgust. This had shocked him considerable, or rather gave him a higher respect for this watcher. Giles on the other hand, now you couldn't pay that bloke enough to crumble a bit of weetabix into his blood. No, no, no. A big fuss was made.  
  
"What's your catch, mate. Don't tell me you're takin' care of me just because you fancy being righteous and all that rot.."  
  
Blood. God, forgot how much it was needed. Sips. Big ones. Finish it up. Feeling better already.  
  
"No catch William. Reckon a vampire gaining a soul is something to be account for."  
  
He took the empty mug, gesturing for Spike to lay down. He responded, easing his back into a semi-comfortable position. He took notice of the position of the cot, having his head higher then his feet. There was a smell, familiar to his scent. Decaying corpse. His view had turned to his right, seeing the human figure beneath a white sheet. Cor, it smelled worse then before this joyous trip.  
  
"Happened to that prat?"  
  
Throat's too dry to speak. But the smell, roasting flesh used to be intoxicating. Now, well, it smelled like hell. Don't say this soul's making the whole vampire deal shown in a different perspective.  
  
"He attempted those trials. Human's aren't tough enough to handle it. Nor are the lot of vampires that had a go at it either. Not too sure what he had wanted though. Immortality if anything. Well, humanity's always a good thing."  
  
Well, Christ, who cares? Shut up already you yapping git. Groggy. Head feeling heavy. And that blood, foreign blood it was. Of course he could handle it. Treacle, scones and mash. Yeah, that fat lot of English food. Nasty, but you eventually acquire a taste for it. Sure he could do the same for this blood. Tired, though. Bloody well tired. Can't turn though, too much pain. Should heal soon..  
  
And with that he dozed off. Or rather ventured into those deep sleeps that vampires are known for. The man smiled briefly to himself, before turning and exiting the room. What a rough ride that one has ahead. No idea that he's on the road to humanity himself. He hummed to himself a little English jig, the sounds of the song reaching beyond him and drifting into the occupied room. The room that had been kept to keep the dead, and those on the road to redemption. To make a long story short, with a soul comes humanity. With humanity, a second chance. 


	2. Ingredient two: Acceptance

Ingredient two: Acceptance.  
  
He slept for two days. The watcher would pop up every now and then, checking the vital signs of the sleeping undead. More people where brought in, autopsied and covered with a sheet. He had considered moving Spike into another room, aware that the growing smell would eventually disturb him. Watcher by nature, even though he had been relieved of his duties years ago, his separate quarters were full with books on demons, vampires and forces of never dying evil alike.  
  
His name was Mathews, a typical Englishman who had been with the council for 23 years. He was young when brought in, his father insisting he do something productive with his life. Now Mathews wasn't sociable really, rather he kept company with stacks of books instead of people. He had stumbled upon a collection of books which had centered on the unknown evils of the world. Mathews wasn't entirely skeptical of the paranormal, and had over time acquired a taste and obsession for it.  
  
He left his parents, took a difficult test and was admitted into the exclusive and secretive council. He was assigned a Slayer, and stayed by her side for 15 years. He kept her well informed, trained and aware of the world she was to live in. But with unfortunate timing, the Slayer had died. It broke him apart, and the council had no choice but to fire him.  
  
So here he sat. Far away from that world, where he now tends to the vampires instead of having his Slayer kill them. Only the ones that had proven themselves, though. Like this one. He had in his lap a heavy leather bound book, the exterior ripped and aged. Inside the text was small, having the read to squint his eyes. Mathews had become overly used to this, flipping through the pages as eyes drifted through the sentences with much speed.  
  
What exactly had the vampire done, that made him survive the three hideously dangerous trials? 500 years had the last immortal being survived the trials, but had committed suicide days later by walking into the sun. It was obvious enough that the vampire had gone crazy, not able to except that fact that killing was wrong. Mortality had stepped up to plate.  
  
But, Spike, he had something different. His vital signs where different. He breathed at times, he noticed. In his sleep his chest would move. Un-intentionally, no doubt. But that's what worried him. Breathing is an involuntary movement. More pages flipped. Pictures of grotesque postured filled most halves of the pages.  
  
Nothing. This was the part that could drive someone mad. Desperate for an answer. It has to be somewhere in this pages. Books where stacked in front of him. Century year old volumes. It had been nightfall before, through drowsy eyelids and six coffees later, had he found something.  
  
The trials, three of them included strength, speed and endurance. Testing both the physical and mental. And the final being the granted wish. Now what had Spike wished for? A soul? How, when clearly he had been happy being a demon. He stopped, and reached over the book laden table to pick up another heavy tome that spoke of famous vampires throughout the centuries. Infamous Villains 101. Yes, there was William the Bloody along with his vampire lover, Drusilla. And the dramatic mob at Prague that nearly killed her. Perhaps it did.  
  
There where too many questions. He placed the manuscript back on the table, rubbing his sore eyes a bit. He returned his view back to the book in his lap, the weight pressuring him to read on. The trials, the granted wish, the humanity. Humanity? Was that what this evil undead had wished for? Then there was a text below that, in small dialect and italicized:  
  
  
  
'With this one Slayer, there will be a male one to be her counterpart. She, in her twenty two years of Slayerage, will be accompanied by the male sex, one who has proven worth after the trials and tribulations pushed henceforth in his way. Obstacles arisen and conquered by this male, will in fact be rewarded to the female slayer, given the male and his new state of being. Whether he be vampire, demon or mortal, he is the second chosen one.'  
  
  
  
It clicked then. The clock had chimed its midnight chirp, making the very involved watcher jump. He closed the book slowly, laying it down next his empty mug. He had been broadly grinning and shaking at the same time. How could the council have overseen this? It was practically a milestone in the eons of their existence. He had made his way over to the phone, dialing the familiarized number as fast as he could.  
  
The dreams where repetitive in their need for annoyance. He shifted wildly in his sleep, the covers falling from the bed. A few moans, brow furrowed and fist clenched.  
  
The pain had made his body fall to the floor after his soul had been restored. His blood had formed pools around his collapsed body, the flashes of people he had killed, and the wrong things he did in his life slid in view before him. It was like a slide show, except the projected images hurt him inside. Like a knife. A bucket of Holy Water spilt inside of him. Make it stop.  
  
He sprung up once again, this time waking to silence and darkness. His had to actually squint in the dimness set before him. It startled him for that brief moment, before he let his shaking posture rest once again in the sheets. He rolled his head to the side, seeing a few more cots, spotting the deceased before him. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing in and out slowly. Breathing?  
  
It became almost a need. And he was desperate for answers. The faint sounds of clicking heels drifting into his room, as the woman he had seen days earlier had made her way in again. It was clear that she did not like anything remotely dead, leaving the contents of the room to be undiscovered. She briskly had washed her hands in the sink before him, trying her hands with a towel then taking a few unsure steps before him.  
  
"Pet, you okay?"  
  
She stopped dead in her tracks, her reflecting eyes showing fear. She nodded quickly, before taking quick steps next to him, taking the empty mug that had been drained days before, and practically ran from the room, holding on to the blood stained mug for dear life. He rolled his eyes, too tired to even chuckle. It should have made him laugh, the antics and pathetic doings of this women. But even that hurt, to think about adding to this woman's fear.  
  
What the hell is wrong with me. I should be tearing out of here, soul or not and reeking some bad ass things on this town. Not laying here worrying about hurting some duck's feelings.  
  
He sighed, supporting his head with crossed arms as he scrounged his eyes around the shadowed ceiling. This was worse then the nights he'd spend in his crypt, alone and laying spread-eagle on his stone sarcophagus. There was the telly across the room, bottles of liquor adoring the wall on the make-shift cabinet and blood in the fridge.  
  
But no. He was in some quaint little morgue in the middle of bleedin' no where, drinking blood that tasted like shit in some mug care-handled by a scared little bint, and no sodding telly anywhere. He'd been missing passions for a month now. And now we realize that we're brooding once again.  
  
There were footsteps once again, this time they where a bit heavier. Eyes closed, he knew the person had stopped at the door, waiting for any type of response.  
  
"Humor me, mate."  
  
Mathews took this as an invitation to venture further into the darkened room, flicking on a small oil lamp nearby and taking a chair next to the occupied cot.  
  
"Well, I did some research earlier, on your status. I'm as much confused and intrigued as you are, I'm sure."  
  
"Research, eh? Is that all you blokes do, by the way?"  
  
"Spike, please, this could be something that could benefit you."  
  
"Yeah, benefit me into putting my name into the Ginuess Book of Records for 'most pathetic undead'."  
  
This bit was going no where. Spike didn't want to cooperate, and he was exhausted. Perhaps just coming out with it. It'd be a shock, and this one isn't exactly in the state to believe whatever he's told.  
  
"Spike, you're becoming human, again."  
  
He spoke it, and there was a moment of silence. Spike laid there, eyes searching the darkened face of the ex-Watcher. Muscles twitched dimly in his clenched jaw, as he bit down on his lip.  
  
"Would explain a lot, that does."  
  
He sat up, the sustaining cuts and bruise scattered along his back and torso still stinging. It would take double long for them to heal, being him all not undead and all. Mathews merely sat there, stunned to say the least. He shifted a bit awkwardly in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Spike.  
  
"Well, you took that quite well.."  
  
"I've had time too think."  
  
"That you have. Well, I'll be leaving. We can discuss this further in the morning. Your returning mortality is only the half of it."  
  
"Can't wait."  
  
And with that Mathews left the room, sauntering slowly into his own quarters. Spike dug his head deep into his entwined arms, rubbing his hands against the back of his sore neck. He accepted it. He was going to get that second chance, to walk in the light, to eat and breath as a necessity and to go back to Sunnydale a changed man. But he'd get all that, and a bit more he hadn't bargained for. 


End file.
